


This will only be memory

by HerdOfTurtles



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, America and France buddy comedy on the side, Angst, But Only Sorta, England will fight everyone, Fae & Fairies, Featuring Angst, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic, Magic England (Hetalia), No beta we die like mne, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective America (Hetalia), Teen England (Hetalia), Trust Issues, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-20 20:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerdOfTurtles/pseuds/HerdOfTurtles
Summary: In the span of seconds, England is suddenly free from the blood and death of his new Queen, waking someplace new and strange. This new place, filled with dangers and powerful new nations, begins to hold an eerie familiarity the longer he stays.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America & France (Hetalia), England & France (Hetalia)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first half of this at about 2 am... I still haven't re-read it to see if it makes sense, but I feel surprisingly ok about that. I'm not sure how far or long this story will actually get, either. At least find comfort that a chapter two will come, because I'm about half way done with it, and writing this has been my way of procrastinating on the actual myriad of essays I'm supposed to be writing without feeling bad about not writing.  
> So yeah... enjoy this chicken scratch. Next update is scheduled to be any point from next week to next year depending on how many people actually like this.

“Hello England.” Soft fingers brushed through his hair. They dripped with blood, so much blood. Every part of his being screamed to run away, to go far away, to escape. 

He took a sharp breath. she would notice his unease.

“England?” perhaps she already did. England tried his best to mask his emotions as she continued to run her fingers over his head. “Is my father’s death still in your memories?”

England stiffened. She wanted him to say something, but ice ran through his veins. England couldn’t. The fingers slowly pulled themselves from his head as the silence stretched. He felt himself shiver. 

“…you do not use your tongue as much as I expected. did you hold your voice from my father as well?” She turned his head by tilting his chin, speaking as if she felt concerned for him after killing his people, burning them, bathing the streets in blood. He could still hear their panic in his mind, a dull roar next to the fire the servants had lit for her majesty.

“God has given you speech, use it.” 

The command prompted his mouth open if only slightly- the first words, the only coherent words England put together, came out a soft mumble.

“Speak up, dear.” 

“It hurts…”

fog stuffed his mind, clouding every thought. 

dizzy. That’s what he felt. Like the world was black and he stepped off a cliff; rapidly falling through stagnate still air. Trying to collect his thoughts was like attempting to carry water in his palms across a desert, stitching loose and fleeting memories together.

Slowly it all came dripping back. 

He was at the Queen’s palace. He had been at the palace for a while now after Henry took him from the church. But Henry was gone, and his world was still upside down.

He blinked, finding the lights a tad too bright, stinging his retinas. Groaning, England discovered the complete nausea and confusion of waking up already standing. Nothing around him looked familiar, and images still looked hazy like he was seeing without processing. It sent a tingle of fear through him. Then something clicked into place.

All around him where potions. potions, books, and symbols. illegal… the entire room.

England couldn’t breath. All he could see were flames.

“Iggy… don’t freak out,” England spun, nearly stumbling in the process. “Uh… I accidentally spilled one of your potion things… and, uh… you’re like, sorta small now.” Wide blue eyes filled with unease met his gaze. A blond’s hands held up like he was face to face with a wild animal. That made England the frightened animal… but nothing in him protested this. His heart beat like a rabbit, every part of him screaming to bolt.

England could only stand frozen, rooted to the ground. 

“Are you mad?” England’s voice trembled. The blond stepped backward in surprise.

“No, no I thought you would be mad…”

Any place in the world would be better than this room. He couldn’t waste any time. the queen, the guards, even his own people might enter at any second. She would burn him again, god, she wouldn’t even hesitate. He had to move fast. 

England swept his arm across the nearest shelf sending everything to the floor. Glass shattered, books thunked heavily overlapping the stunned gasp of protest behind him

“quick, get a candle.” Nausea washed over him. Fire would be needed to swallow the offending items and curl their blackened pages into ash. Something needed to be consumed, and it wasn’t going to be England.

“Dude! England what the hell?!” The other’s expression lacked fear, he could see the confusion, the unease, but not the true terror that hummed before death. It made England shake with ire.

“What the bloody hell indeed! Do you want to die?!” England shouted, causing the other to flinch back. Good.

“No…” still more unease than anything, but fear was beginning to shine in those blue eyes. “I’ll go see what I can get.” The blond turned away, vanishing behind rows of old bookshelves and mason jars.

He thought it was the dark magic permeating the room, but now that his mind was less of a haze he felt a little uneasy by the other person who knew his true name. By the time rushed footsteps came creaking back across the old wooden floorboards his suspicions had risen into a messy broken pile like the one hastily constructed at his feet. Something wasn’t quite right with this human. 

“Hey, so I couldn’t really find a candle so I grabbed a flashlight. Does this work?” The blond shoved a strange object into his hands. Temporarily all his suspicions where shoved to the back burner.

England examined it for all of twelve seconds before his narrow gaze crawled back to the human with a sinking confusion and rising annoyance.

“A what?” 

“A flashlight. F-L-A-S-H-L-I-G-H-T. Not a torch.” The way the blond spoke was as if he was lecturing a particularly daft child. It did nothing to ease his rising annoyance and confusion.

“I can see it’s not a bloody torch,” England growled. “What the hell is this? I need fire, not a… thing…” What had been given to him? He slowly brought the object closer for inspection, running his fingers over the top gingerly. After a short pause his confidence strengthened, and England ran his fingers across it again with less hesitation.

In all the years he spent on the earth, he never crossed anything quite like this. He couldn’t even tell what the object was made from. 

“Uh… England?” England snapped back from his thoughts. “You’re kinda freaking me out right now.”

A plethora of confusing emotions took hold of him, pulling his nausea back. Too much to process. Magic, flashlights, and the overall un-humanness of the human with him who also knew his true name. A headache split his skull, casing a pained hiss to escape his lips. 

“England! What’s wrong?! OMYJOSH IS IT THE POTION I SPILLED?” Steel arms yanked him way too hard, spinning the world as he was pulled closer to the other. England swore as familiar sparks connected them. 

Another nation.

How could he be so stupid? How did he not recognize the natural buzz of energy every nation radiated? But… he didn’t recognize this nation’s signature energy or face. Everything around him was unfamiliar. frustrating, confusing, and unfamiliar.

“Hey! Hey look at me, tell me what’s wrong? How do I fix it?” The Nation shook him, keeping the world spinning like a barrel down a hill.

England could barely get words in his mouth, let alone spit them out into the light until the shaking stopped, and then the other Nation switched tactics on a dime, promptly gripping his wrists and putting his face a few inches from England’s own, inspecting him as if searching for a missing piece.

In a quick moment England jerked himself out of the other nation’s grip, twisting to the floor and abruptly rolling back to escape, swiping his hand out to snatch a shard of glass from the floor and shifting to hold it close and tight. England readied himself for an attack. 

“Whoa dude calm down!” The nation’s hands where back up, worried eyes on his weapon. “Let’s just talk this out, ok?”

There was no way he would drop his weapon. England wasn’t stupid, he knew the routine. The other Nation would promise him something, then change his mind as soon as it was convenient. No, England would not ‘talk this out.’ Talking things out was not how he survived.

The other nation had no time to react as England darted forward, slicing out with the makeshift knife. England couldn’t win a battle with this Nation- power radiated from the Nation’s every movement- so he would just have to run. The burst of speed he pushed forward with put him out of reach and into the unknown house.

Seconds later heavy footsteps where quickly gaining on him. The island nation cursed under his breath again. Running was his thing! He was the fastest nation, the lightest and smallest in Europe, how was this brand new giant nation catching up? 

What would happen if he caught up? 

Fear pushed him faster, his breaths escaping in short gasps sucking in dusty air as he scrambled up a flight of stairs. 

The house had wide open hallways- a disadvantage for his lithe form against the advancing, faster and larger foreign nation. The best strategy his brain could toss together was to find a hiding place.

Veering off to the right he swung an old polished wooden door into the wall, sending a thwack and a dent into the pale paint before he slammed it back, stinging his finger tips with the force he used. All of England’s meager weight pressed right back against it while his brain attempted to work a better way to escape.

Hiding… how could he hide? This isn’t going to work… 

Before anything sorted out the breath escaped his lungs, his body smacking into the ground. Everything spun again… scrambled and still confusing with a painful spike quaking in his bones. The foreign nation had easily busted the door open without even trying.

A prick of resignation and terror sunk inside. His last chance to escape came crashing down, yet he still scrambled to his feet as fast as possible.

“England, stop!” The nation leaned in the open doorway, breathing heavily, a sanguine streak inflicted across his shoulder barely even dripping. “Please stop… just tell me what’s going on?”

He narrowed his eyes at the foreign nation. The nation didn’t look hostile, even after he had attacked. But looks deceive, and trust only ever armed men against him.

“Why did you take me here?” He inched toward the window, still watching the wide blue eyes of the invader. If he acted fast, he could jump out.

“What do you mean? I didn’t take you here! You live here! You’re really freaking me out!” 

Live here? What the hell was this nation on about? Still… it didn’t matter. He took another step away.

“Stop! I said stop!”

England sent a hard glare as he deliberately ignored him.

“Seriously, dude. You’re acting like…” His voice trailed off, suddenly recoiling slightly. “… Do you know me?”

He didn’t respond. 

Maybe it was the knowledge that he wouldn’t get far running, or the hurt look in the other nation’s eyes that made him hesitate. But he knew he should run; stay away from others of his kind at all costs. Nations didn’t mix. They where solitary creatures in a way, avoiding others because nations existed to kill and others to die. The winners won and the losers vanished, snuffed out by new nations they never met all in the name of survival. It was a system that existed from the origin of humanity, that decreed isolation from the very beginning. 

Of course the nation couldn’t outright kill him, but the things he could do, the influence he could imprint into his core could erase everything he was. He had enough French and Roman influence forced on him already… England didn’t think he could take being invaded again and still be himself.

“How old are you?” The foreign nation finally spoke. It wasn’t harsh or demanding, just… worried.

England shifted on his feet, reluctantly ignoring his instincts to run. 

“I don’t know.” It was honest, but also partially false. Rome considered his age the day Rome discovered him on his cold island, and France gave England a shared birthdate with his brothers. England figured this nation would do something similar if given the chance.

Instead the Nation was silent for a long time, seemingly deep in thought. Briefly England entertained returning to his jumping out the window plan, but the other spoke before it was put to action.

“I’m The United States of America, I won’t hurt you… I help people. And nations.” He said, soft and slow, sounding frighteningly like Rome those years ago. Promising protection, but crushing and powerful.

“I don’t believe you. No one helps nations, especially ones that look young enough to kill. But you won’t be able to kill me… I’m old enough to regenerate.” He bit back, monotone. 

The moment he first died was terrifying, sinking into the dark alone, bloody and so, so cold. He must have aged into a kingdom some point before, but at the time he just waited, wondering if he would ever wake up again. 

The United States sucked in a breath, horror and hurt swirling in those blue depths. “I would never hurt you! We’re allies, I protect you cause I’m a hero!” 

How stupid did this nation think he was? venomous words almost flew from his mouth, bitten back at the last second and exchanged for something with much more accusation “I’ve never heard of you before.”

“Look, I can explain! You just need to trust me.” So much hope in those eyes. So much expressed… nothing held back. 

Trust meant betrayal. Trust was Rome, it was France, it was his rulers, his people. Trust shackled and stabbed him. Trust burned and drowned him. 

Trust was a tool in the game of survival, and England was going to win.

One glance exchanged between the two… then England tossed himself out the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Laughs maniacally as I throw random words together on a string in pure boredom*  
> idk if this is coherent. I read it once. Enjoy~

The other nation had not given up easily. After slipping out the window- a nice landing from the first floor- the ‘United States’ had followed clumsily after. England eventually made himself at home and hidden in a close tree where he watched the other search and yell for hours. 

It was only after dark that the nation gave up, and by then England felt the weary strain of sleep latch onto his bones like led.

He thumped to the ground in exhaustion, stumbling backward and landing on his back after the force proved too great for his feet. He forgot how horrible grass and twigs made for padding.

A wave of bitter resentment toward himself for forgetting his early days before the church and the kings and the queens and the knights momentarily buzzed in the back of his head. He never forgot events, but the emotions… the feelings… those faded into nothing long ago. Forgotten to a point where memories just existed. The apathy and near detachment he recalled those moments with disgusted him.

This must be karma, forcing him to return to his forest roots.

He began his trek deeper into the forest thinking of his empty stomach. How did he catch food to eat back then? If he remembered correctly, he rarely caught meat… he had berries and plants. Collecting early was crucial to survival… several of his siblings made the mistake of waiting. 

Famine was common enough that he could remember the burning pains, a flame eating through skin and devouring from the inside out. Long sleepless nights as hunger gnawed through his stomach taught him well… but the times he had hunted for himself where long gone. If he was lucky he could find some berries or other non-poisonous foliage, but he barely remembered what was what. Being locked up in the palace for years did nothing to prepare him for a situation like this.

The best strategy would be to keep an eye out while he walked, and start searching primarily after the sun rose and he could see better, but waiting that long was pushing it. 

England walked, alert in the dark. The chilled air barely made him shiver, skimming his face like gentle breath from the forest.

And then a piercing clatter shattered the silence. 

His blood rushed, body flinching away from the noise in instinct. Hide… he had to hide…

Jumping backwards caused him to stumble, finding the horrible sound screamed just as loud. No sound could compete, it swallowed the night.

His leg was vibrating. 

Oh God he was going to die

A horrible noise, a sort of ringing with no instruments. It was coming from _him._

England franticly tore through the strange baggy clothes he woke in. The vibrating section of his leg was glowing. He choked on his own gasp.

This was it. This must be death. The devil was finally claiming his soul for all his black magics and dark spells he performed all those years ago.

He yanked the light out and held it up, all color draining from his face. It was worse… God it was so much worse…

It was France’s face, glowing and vibrating and ringing in his hand. 

England shrieked and threw the object as hard as he could into the forest where it landed in the leaves with a crunch. It didn’t immediately move like he expected. It just sat there, continuing to sing the satin song and glow with hellfire. Still he didn’t approach or run. He didn’t want to be the one who made the first move.

Then the hell box silenced. 

He held his breath, taking a soft step closer. He flinched as the light abruptly vanished just like the song moments before, but nothing else changed. 

That thing… that demented object… he carried it the whole time. He paled. _What else was he carrying?_

His hands sifted through his other pockets like a man scrambling to shake a spider off, succeeding in bringing objects to the forest floor in every direction, crinkling and jingling as they fell. Any one of them could be a demented object set to go off at any second, and if France had mastered magic… England didn’t want to know what horrible enchantments and spells could plague him. 

He quickly buried the objects in leaves before abandoning the area the same way a deer in an archer’s sights ran for its life. Living to fight again, to feel blood roll again, because dead things could not experience that pain, it seized priority over all else. 

His flee finally came to an end at the edge of the forest, where he paused to breathe. 

He leaned back against a tree, putting a hand over his mouth to warm the frost heavy air that cut his lungs like ice. His legs burned, but only in a fleeting way that a few moments of rest would subside. His fear didn’t subside, though. It sunk into his gut and blanketed his hunger, giving way to a queasy unease. He waited until the pounding of his heart left a cold pain in its place, then, cautiously, he examined his new surroundings. 

Winding into the black shadows of the trees a mere distance away, clear to see in the open, a shadow cut across the clearing. It looked like a river, but he couldn’t hear the trickle of water.

Curiosity led him to stand on his still sore legs and approach. It didn’t look like water, but he needed a better look.

The closer he got, the slower he walked. Until he stared at the ground, placing a shoe on the rock surface. 

Flat stone. The edges looked dark grey in the pale night under thin clouds, but a line of paint distinctly stretched in both directions.

He took an uncertain step away from the surface, weary eyes watching what appeared to be a road- a very well made road. He didn’t like the idea of possibly running into a human along his way, especially one from this land. 

He walked across the path, re-joining the forest on the other side. A distant hum caused him to look back over his shoulder in alarm.

Directly ahead two torches lit the horizon between the fingers of the spruce and oak, glowing with unearthly eminence. Getting closer. They looked like eyes.

England took cover, slipping behind the foliage. 

This myriad of black magics must be unique to the land he lost himself, most likely belonging to that ‘United States’ nation. Magic had soaked every floorboard of the house he woke in, a near overwhelming wave once he recognized it, but everything else had to be powerfully masked. That box had felt invisible to his magic senses, and this fast approaching creature felt the same.

The large creature didn’t even slow, speeding by and sending a draft that blew his hair and ruffled his clothes before he could even blink. He sunk lower into his hiding place, hating the feeling of being so very, very small. 

This new nation hopefully lived very far- for his sake and the sake of every other country in the world. But that did put him in a bad position for returning to his own land, the only place in this world he would be safe- or at least, safer.

As soon as the torch eyes vanished into the woods again, England turned from his hiding and trekked deeper into the forest.

It was becoming clear that getting back to his own land would be much harder than he expected. His connection to the people felt very thin, and his connection to the queen left a blank silence when he reached out in his mind. 

He paused, struck with a sudden theory.

If all magic was cloaked in this land, it would explain the weak connection. He wouldn’t be able to locate his land by following his people’s prominent beacon. A clear look at the stars would reveal his exact location, but the night sky looked greyish. Mostly because he couldn’t actually see the sky through the thick layer of dull clouds. 

A new idea began to stitch itself together. An Inky and ruinous alternative, one that triggered because the cloak meant his own magic signature was virtually undetectable.

The idea of using his magic again only grew in appeal. To feel that comforting warmth, those wisps of unpracticed raw magic again… it would be nice. 

A slight tremor shook him from his traitorous thoughts. Those thoughts where wrong. It would be wrong. He was Catholic. All his people where supposed to be, anything else was wrong. Every single one of his rulers ingrained that in his mind since the Romans— it was only by their mercy a Druid like him could have a second chance.

He squeezed his eyes closed, clenching both fists. It would be warm. He wanted that, so bad. That unforgettable fuzz of comforting energy, wrapped around him. He already dipped into that forbidden lake several times before. He was punished severely every time.

His hand lifted to the closest tree before he could stop himself, pressing into the moist dirt dusted trunk, fingers folding into the groves of the moss and bark as he took a deep breath. He reached deep, focusing hard in order to reconnect to something very old, like delicately handling an old forgotten book. The world around him faded as a familiar spark of energy traveled from his core and to his fingertips, sinking into the tree. He blocked out the immediate self loathing that followed.

The tree’s magic was quick to wake, responding in a biting sting of reluctance that nearly caused his unpracticed raw magic to rebound back toward himself. 

He grunted in annoyance, pushing back with more magic. He wasn’t going to taint himself for nothing. It might need to be forced to manifest if it didn’t respond to a stronger push back.

Something tangibly sharp bit his fingers this time. 

“AK- damnit- you little twerp!” England yelped, yanking his hand back. “Fine… blasted little menace…”

His shattered focus and lingering energy flickered in the air, dispersing around him. He had to focus. Breath slow this time. If it was going to be stubborn, then England was going to be stubborn back. 

He put a few sloppy magic barriers to prevent a derail around his target this time, probably only working from the sheer amount of raw power he had stored from years of suppressing it, then he pushed back with his raw energy in a way only a naturally magic born creature could.

This time the magic looped and curved, like words written on a page in delicate thin ink. He smiled as it hummed heavy with power, creating nots in an inescapable web. His magic was as warm as he remembered. 

A small light began to bloom, flickering in the dark like a flower from fire, pallid and guileful even when taking shape. The creature resisted quite a bit until it became more solid, forming into a face fanged and stuck in an expression of pure fury. then In one snapping moment it solidified.

The guilt and adrenaline clashing together in an unpleasant swirl of emotion dissipated into bright triumph. He did it. He scanned his surroundings just in case there was a witness, but the night was empty. 

A spitting hiss shaking with malice escaped the small bug-like creature in his palm, tearing at the threads of magic despite the already firm lines trapping it.

England snorted in vague amusement; Fairies hated being woken as fiercely as he remembered.

“Calm, small sprite.” The creature’s attention drifted temporarily, beady black gaze locked at his. Then the frilly curled wings flared, and it opened its maw only to hiss again. 

“Answer to the land with your silver mouth, and do not give me trouble with your words,” he demanded. Despite not being able to lie, fairies could spin truth into disorder until neither could be separated— to consult one of the fair-folk one had to be careful. Most Fae England had befriended in the past pulled their own tricks on him at times, but they treated him as one of their own back then. They knew and raised him long before the humans gave him blood. England did not expect the same kindness now. He ignored the dull throb of sadness that latched onto him.

“You are not the land,” The Fae laughed, bitter like poppy.

The malice laced response sparked a trace of something a bit warmer than his magic typically felt in his core. He took a moment, watching the Fae closely for signs of deception. The small creature took way too much joy from his query, crackling with a grin stretched across its face to display its needle like teeth. But England couldn’t think of any way those words could be twisted.

“Then who is the land?” He asked. He highly suspected it would be the United States nation, but he had to be sure. knowing a name would pull him from his unintended stupor, which it seemed he couldn’t escape since waking in the strange land. 

The Fae only crackled more. A spark flashed in its eyes, one that lit a flame. “He is far older, I do not know him, nor have I seen him because do not interact with your kind. I want no part of your petty compulsions to the humans and need to bow to their every whim.”

Something in his magic snapped, broken, consumed in orange and red and yellow. It burned and festered like the fires in the streets. He watched with deaf interest as his magic tightened around the creature causing hisses of fury and pain to resurface and silence those sharp words. 

“Tell me where we are, and I’ll let you sleep again.” He dropped his formal speech with the Fae, only working with one goal in mind. It was an exceptional honed skill, one that flared and thrived under his past rulers. It was a skill that turned him from a pretty personification of property to a violently valuable asset. Humans demanded blood, and England learned fast from their greedy hands. But he was no petty servant, he had control. 

The creature struggled a bit more before relenting, spitting with conviction. “The humans call it Gaddesden.” 

“I don’t know a Gaddesden. What direction is England?” Two new nations. That horrid news sent his head reeling. He was some place past the reaches of the earth, some place Rome hadn’t even touched— or at the very least never spoke of. 

The Fae’s face brightened, and a new, mirthful laugh grating on England’s ears. It was genuine, mocking, and England could see something being spun behind those beady black eyes.

“You will find yourself in England if you pick a direction and walk.” Before England could interrupt with ire, it continued. “But… I will give you exact directions if we make a deal.” That needle sharp maw slipped upwards into a caricature of a smile.

He could easily walk away with nothing but the guilt of his actions. He could easily crawl back free of ties, only bound by failure. He almost did. Instead his mouth opened as the fire in his magic faltered. 

“What kind of deal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason the irony of England thinking a small town in the middle of England is another nation gives me immense joy. Great Gaddesden is an hour outside of London, and founded in the 1700s so England wouldn't recognize it. I also find immense joy in the fact that he's in this small green spot surrounded by urbanization on all sides. He's gonna be in for a surprise when he gets to the cities-- France and America should hurry. Speaking of those twats, the next chapter will be focusing on France and America! I can't wait to write them scrambling around England looking for England. It's gonna be a blast!
> 
> The next update will probably come around next month, because I write fics when I'm supposed to be writing other things to avoid them, and I don't have very many of those coming up soon. But idk, I could be lying and get bored tomorrow, then end up writing the next chapter in one sitting. Writing is confusing. Updates are spontaneous. Please feed me comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the reason why the Ethnography section of my Capstone project is incomplete. The Ethnography section of my Capstone project is the reason why this chapter is incomplete.  
> Ladies and gentlemen, it appears I have created myself a problem.

Alfred couldn’t sleep. It was not the fault of the blurry tea cups filled with coffee currently conglomerating on Arthur’s desk-- Arthur didn’t own anything else to put coffee in… what was he supposed to do? No, it was the fault of a specific island nation running around someplace in the UK. His boss was going to kill him if England’s boss didn’t come for him first.

How could a hero be a hero if they gave up? He snatched a tea cup from the table, fumbling awkwardly with it for a moment before downing the contents in one go. He wrinkled his nose in suspicion at the cup. It had to be polluting the coffee. He swore he could taste the centuries of tea and dust from the weirdly shaped cup it had soaked in.

He ran a hand through his hair before adding the cup gently to his growing collection on the table with a frown. He already broke one… something he was sure Arthur would double kill him for. But in his defense, who made a cup fragile as origami anyway? He grimaced at the thought, remembering Kiku’s neutral but somehow still very disappointed stare after he crumpled one of his paper creations in a world meeting a while back. 

No use on dwelling in the past, though. He should to dwell on the past few hours. Which was still the past, but it wasn’t the past past. His frown deepened at the thought. 

With a lengthy drained exhale, Alfred turned to fill another cup, hoping that this time this cup wouldn’t taint his coffee. 

A sudden ringing of Arthurs’ home phone startled the cup from his feather light clasp just as he started to fill it, causing shards to burst across the old rickety wood and a string of curses to echo through the house. Damn… he was triple dead now.

He lunged for the phone, stumbling over a mess that surpassed the one in the basement. That was a lie… Arthur destroyed the basement better than that. He suppressed the anxiety that simmered in him as he picked up the phone, fleetingly wondering why Arthur still had such an old phone before he mentally slapped himself. He should be wondering why it wasn’t a telegraph instead—England hoarded all sorts of bizarre old things.

“Hello! Alfred Jones speaking, I nee-“ He cut himself off sharply, mentally slapping himself himself again. It might be Russia… that sneaking commie could be trying to lure Arthur to the dark side for all he knew! If Russia found out about Arthur’s situation then that would really toss England to the ditches. “Who’s calling?” Yeah… much better.

“America?” Snappish French muttering came through on the line, and Alfred calmed a bit. No matter what Arthur said, Francis was a trustable ally. 

“America!” The shout surprised him. “Get that insufferable Anglais on the phone!” France’s voice thundered through the speaker, chockfull of peeved frustration. Alfred shrank back from the phone, trying to translate the one French word in that sentence. It didn’t take him long; Alfred immediately panicked.

“He can’t talk right now! Erm, he’s really busy!” Damn… now he had to structure his next words. He needed to be careful—something he was God awful at. At least it was Francis and not Ivan, even if it created a slight complication. Well… any country that called would create a slight complication, but Alfred was at the end of his rope here! He needed help from anywhere and anyone, excluding Ivan. 

Resolved, Alfred continued. “But I really really need your help right now… with a hypothetical thing.”

The silence on the other side of the line made him fret.

“So there’s this issue- hypothetical! - where I go over to someone’s house to play a prank, but they’re actually kinda glad to see me, and then I start feeling bad- that’s beside the point though- anyway, I go through with the hypothetical prank thing and then everything falls apart and this person shrinks forgets who I am and disappears and I have no clue what to do. So…. uhhh… what would you do in this hypothetical situation?”

No matter how short-lived, Alfred let himself bask in the feeling that, just maybe, he pulled something off correctly. The allusion shattered with sputtering angry French noises.

“AMERICA WHO DISAPEARED?! NON, No! Don’t answer that!” More muttering came through the line. Alfred took this time studying the chipped paint on the speakers, picking at it until the Frenchman’s voice returned. All in all, Francis wasn’t the worst nation in the world to find out about this. The man had a sort of attachment to Arthur- Alfred wouldn’t call it friendship- just a type of investment in each other, like two bickering brothers who both hated and appreciated one anothers existence. “England’s national presence has vanished from the world scale, America! Typically, that means one of three things; England’s about to declare war, He’s dead, or someone has vastly sCREWED EVERYTHING UP.” 

“Hmm… yeah…” He turned his head down, nudging a piece of tea cup with his shoe and attempting to sound nonchalant about the situation. He pulled it off pretty well-- for feeling like a massive hole in his stomach had opened and sucked his composure away the second he lost smaller-than-normal Arthur to the woods. That dull throb of worry pulsed deep in his chest.

“America I swear…” Francis exhaled loud enough for Alfred to hear through the phone. “Stay where you are, I’m coming to England. I will be there in three hours, so don’t screw anything else up- I expect a full explanation when I get there.” The phone clicked, signifying the conversation was over. 

Alfred swallowed. Three hours… time that he should be using to find Arthur. He guiltily looked at the cups, thinking of all the time he already wasted. He glanced at the door, then thought of window that Arthur jumped out of. He could go back out, he should go back out and search through the night to find his British ally. It’s what a hero would do…

Instead he scrambled to clean the shattered cup. Arthur would want his house clean when he returned. He was almost certain a few shards where still lodged between the wooden floorboards even after. He couldn’t do much about that-- he would just need to warn France to keep his shoes on or something. Alfred then moved on to cleaning the used cups, the ones that had escaped the fate of the floor, and very carefully transported them to the kitchen. 

He would never understand why Arthur used such a fragile cup… he had to be careful not to hold it too tight but not too loose in case he dropped it, and Alfred, while one of the strongest nations, knew Arthur had some level of nation strength as well. 

Alfred downed the remaining coffee he made, using the last cup, noticing with distaste that the dusty flavor still clung to the liquid. He gave himself a mental note to tell Arthur that his coffee sucked. 

A bleak vacancy stole his trance and left a cold feeling in place, underlined by the twinge of guilt.

The mental note was quietly scrapped. 

With nothing else to do, he sat down, and let his thoughts drearily turn like the old fan in the guest bedroom. Arthur’s house creaked in the wind, and Alfred wondered if Arthur was cold somewhere in the forest. He looked out one of the fogged windows and stared into the black night, suddenly aware of how dark the house itself was. The room he occupied glowed alone, with weak brown light, stretching shadows through the room. Some metal grill from the 1800s probably existed somewhere, hard at work to keep the night chill out. His thoughts circled back around to Arthur, outside, and probably lost.

What if… what if they couldn’t fix this… or they lost him forever? 

He was saved from answering his own question when a succession of faint banging alerted him someone was at the door. He made his way through the halls, turning on every light as he went. Arthur’s house became emptier at night, it felt. Part of him stupidly wished it was Arthur, but the much more logical half, the one he ignored most the time, knew it to be Francis. 

Somehow he still felt disappointed after opening the large oak door.

France shoved past him, leaving the apprehensive American to close out the frigid night air. The Frenchman didn’t even look at him, instead he held his head high, and advanced free handed into the foyer as if he wouldn’t be staying long-- or, he came on such a short notice that he didn’t pack. Alfred didn’t know which to think, the likely hood of either seemed convincing with the complicated ‘friendship’ he had with Arthur. 

“America.” Francis acknowledged. 

Alfred pulled an irresolute grin onto his face, “Hey France.”

“I barely understood what you said earlier, however, I understood enough to know you have gone and done something stupid.” Francis said, getting right to the point and throwing his coat carelessly to the side. 

Alfred gaped at the discarded garment. France tossed his coat on the floor. France- man of high tastes- tossed his coat- which looked new and glossy- on the floor… a place that may or may not have been cleaned since Arthur stopped employing servants. His gaze snapped back to Francis with newfound uncertainty.

“First, when did England disappear, and why.” The other man’s voice dripped with accusation. Alfred opened his mouth to defend himself on impulse, but dwindled off before he even said anything. He thought about it for a moment.

“It would probably be best if I just showed you.” Francis looked at him with the same uncertainty in response to his soft tone. Alfred led Francis down to the basement, and flicked the dim lights on. 

The mess met both their gazes.

Francis made a noise, but very faintly, eyes widening just a fraction. He slowly sank to a crouch, staring intently at the mix of devastated and thoroughly crushed scraps littered at his feet. Francis reached out a hand, gentler than his previous movements to pick up a particularly large shard of glass. Alfred noticed the black flecks of dried blood rimming the edge and frowned. A questioning look crossed Francis’s face.

“England didn’t recognize me… that’s why he disappeared… he ran away.” 

Francis put the piece down as gentle as he selected it, then stood, stepping back and turning to Alfred. 

“England did this…” The question morphed into a blank statement. “Why?”

“Something spilled on him- I have no clue what chemicals or crazy liquids England has down here, but whatever it was, I think it somehow made him… younger. He got small, but not too small… maybe lost a few inches. I tried to talk to him… but…” A vacant sheen entered Francis’s eyes at Alfred’s words, as if lost in contemplation. Alfred continued, encouraged that France apparently believed him, “He wasn’t making any sense- he wanted a torch. He started destroying everything… and when he realized I was a nation he ran…” 

“He wanted a torch?” Francis furrowed his brows as Alfred nodded. “And then he destroyed his magic…” Francis mused to himself.

Instead of scoffing at the mention of magic, Alfred nodded again. He didn’t have the energy or will to object, not at the moment, not while Arthur was missing.

“England was never afraid of magic… he always struggled to turn away from his roots, even after all his people did. I can’t imagine why he would destroy-“

“Does it matter?” Alfred interrupted, and Francis narrowed his eyes at the American. “We just need to find him, and fix this. Who cares that he’s off the walls and acting crazy strange!” A sudden dread entered his thoughts. “What if England is hurt? France what if he’s out in the cold somewhere and hurt!?”

Francis worried his lip, seemingly thinking of that now. “He would be fine, I think… he lived on his own for hundreds of years without his brothers or his people, America.” Alfred readied to argue back, but Francis held out a hand to silence him. “But, I agree. we should go find him.” Francis looked back across the room, worried look still etched onto his face. Alfred ignored it.

“Ok, then let’s go!” Alfred rushed back up the stairs, eager to leave the basement. Francis trailed after, slower, and still deep in thought. Then France pulled out his phone and dialed.

Alfred felt his frustration grip painfully. France held his hand out again, motioning for silence, but Alfred impatiently glared, ready to drag the other nation out forcefully if need be. He had to find England, he had to fix his mess, and France wasn’t going to just stand there and waste time. He was about to reach out and grab the phone from the Frenchman when Francis pocketed it.

“He won’t answer his phone. It was to be expected, but we can track the call to locate him.”

His thoughts from before seemed foolish, now. 

“Oh…” He was mentally grateful he didn’t follow through. “How far is he?” 

“It looks like he is about sixteen miles out”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is trying to fix his own issues, but he's still very childish XD  
> You probably wont see another France and America chapter for a bit, I think I might only write one more chapter from their perspective. The next chapter should have England go to the city (If my writing even goes that way... my plans tend to go everywhere)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style is kinda like a pendulum, except instead of swinging back and forth between two opposite moods, the pendulum is having a seizure and nothing makes sense anymore. But I’m having a great time writing this and nothing can stop me.

England sluggishly moved like a corpse through the early morning light, walking down the roads. He watched everything around him- not unlike a rabbit- paranoid and making sure he was safely out of sight. The tired weight on his bones had increased since setting out across the woods, and the deal he set exhausted most his magic, leaving everything cold and tiresome.

It didn’t help that his wondering felt aimless. He questioned if he was even following the correct path at all. The directions he received where a bit vague, but they gave him something work towards, which was one step up from ‘plan putting distance between himself and the other nation.’ If the deal wasn’t so easy to fulfill, England would have felt cheated and even more confused than he already was. The guilt rolling around in his stomach like a snake was enough for him to handle at the moment. 

Every part of himself was disgusted… how could he let himself crumble into magic so easily? What if the Queen found out? He shuddered. paranoia. That’s all this was. She couldn’t find out. There was no way.

It didn’t take long for the morning sky to turn everything pale and grey, basking the world below in a dreary light. The dreary light revealed outlines, shapes, shadows, and colors all around, and then the trees began to get shorter, younger, thinner, until his only cover was the grassy hills. England let himself relax with the dawn, even if the guilt never left, even if the light and lack of cover would make hiding harder. England could see better, and seeing better would allow him to avoid approaching beasts while he followed the road from a safer distance. 

The only constant was the road. Until it wasn’t.

A plaque with smooth shapes caught his eye at the same place that the road split. It protruded from the land, standing out in the early morning flatlands, like a thin grey stick of a tree lacking all its leaves. On top was the brightest color he had seen since the royal court; It was stark, like fresh blood, spotted with slim white shapes. 

His eyes widened.

Letters. The little shapes resembled letters, familiar letters, ones that belonged to him! English letters! He broke into a run-- A desperate, joyful run. Everything ached from his tired bones to his sore feet while he stumbled over the hills. He must be close to his lands! Despite the flaws of his land, it meant safety. A place he belonged. A place free from unnatural roads and horrific beasts.

England abruptly flounder to a fearful halt. The road… he couldn’t go near. He had to keep a safe distance because of the road beasts. 

Many of those beasts had passed over the flat roads during the night, glowing and massive, monstrous and tirelessly. He had watched them roll without horses, never leaving the path set before them, moving unnaturally fast… faster than any creature he had ever seen. They couldn’t be animals— no creature moved like the beasts. Beast was the only proper term capable of correctly describing those unnatural entities. 

He stood watch, waiting and glaring at the sign forcefully separated from him by the motionless roads. Nothing appeared over the horizon, but England didn’t dare make a move.

England had to get close… he had to see something he recognized. The pathetic desperation driving his actions made the snake in his stomach squirm. Running to the sign went against every sense of self-preservation he had, but the emotions controlling his movements refused to flee, leaving him immobile where he first stumbled.

England took a deep breath.

England trotted up from the dip in the hill with weak confidence, then stared at the words on the sign, eager to read familiar letters.

His brows furrowed. 

He reached a hand out to trace the edges of the letters. They were his letters. This was not his language. The letters where arranged in an unfamiliar pattern that he could read. It said ‘stop?’

He stared at the word on the sign in blank reverie. It could be a new word, but it was a bit odd that someone would put ‘stop’ on a bright red oddly shaped sign in the middle of nowhere. 

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t think of the swift beasts until a low cracking hum set him deathly still. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it. 

It glistened, rolling closer, shiny like a sword and large as a chariot. It was too late to run… it would take mere seconds to reach him.

He had no time or place to hide.

England swooped down and picked up a stone, bounced it in his palm hastily to test the weight, then slipped it into his pocket. 

The beast took place in front of him. Motionless, Growling, filling the air with smog and stench. His eyes narrowed at the creature, daring it to move. If he couldn’t run, he could bluff until he could. He refused to die at the hands of the vicious creature before him. The road beast. A creature of dark magic. He couldn’t die to it, not when his kingdom had been through so much, survived so many battles and bloody wars. This creature could never permanently kill him, but dying in a foreign country would instantly alert the personification of the foreign country of his presence, and that was the last thing England needed. foreign countries would try their very best to absorb his land and end him permanently. That was not an option.

He stood up, standing straight and tall to seem stronger. He widened his stance ever so slightly, keeping a hand in his pocket wrapped around the stone ready for attack.

Then the creature’s skin… rolled down. 

Slowly, almost painfully, a soft, steady heart beat began to thrum in his ears. It thumped with his heart, alongside it, blanketing his like a thin gossamer, detached and distant. It felt like a ghost of a person. It felt like a ghost of an Englishman.

He was face to face with a citizen of his own country. Shock rendered him useless.

His citizen frowned and leaned closer to the opening in the creature’s side, as if to get a better look. England met their gaze with weary stupor. 

“Are you all right mate?” Their voice was cautious… not entirely unfriendly, but certainly not threatening. His brain supplied him with a light level of information at first glance—If he looked longer or dug deeper, more information would surface, but all he needed at the moment was light information to gauge how safe conversing with his citizen would be. He technically wasn’t allowed to speak with anyone unless the Queen commanded it… but… England supposed certain situations would allow exceptions. 

He could see the woman was a forty-three, a mother of an adopted child who had long since left, and she had been living for the past three years alone in… London...

His breath caught. 

“Am I far from London?” The words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop himself, colored with trace of desperation. He loathed that desperation. It was weak, it put him in a position at someone else’s mercy, and it was dangerous. 

But no matter the answer he got, he didn’t know what would be worse… no matter if London was close or far. His responsibility demanded that London be far flung from this dangerous place, but his personal desire wanted to be safe, wanted to preserve himself and get back quickly. The only place in the world he would be safe.

England noticed how the woman scrutinized him, as if trying to unpuzzle the centuries of tangled history in his gaze. He would have scoffed in any other situation; such an action was futile. But now he kept a weary gaze on the potential threat, careful to keep himself and his thoughts guarded no matter how small a threat that chance posed. 

the woman smiled, finally coming to a conclusion- or giving up on solving the puzzle. “It’s a bit of a walk from here… if you are going that way, I could give you a lift? I’m heading that direction as it is.” She said.

A lift? His blank expression twisted into slight bafflement. A spinning cloud of conclusions coiled in his mind. London must be close, as she couldn’t have strayed too far from the city. But… she did not indicate a distance. And the fact that she was sitting in a beast must mean the creature is safe on some level, or controlled in some way. And the beasts he had seen where fast… faster than anything alive. That could mean London was far… and if it was far, traveling with another human might raise his chances of getting there undamaged. 

It was all too much information, and the beginnings of a headache launched a re-forming dizziness. She was his citizen… that meant she had a natural inclination to protect him. It meant he could likely trust her. But that natural inclination could be easily overridden if she really wanted to hurt him…

But what reason did she have to hurt him? He should be ok as long as he didn’t act suspicious or loud.

“I guess… I guess I could accept your offer…” He gave the woman a hesitant nod. She moved, the beast clicked, and then she gave him an expectant look.

He stood for a moment before realizing he had no clue what to do. Anxiety immediately sputtered to life in his slightly trembling hands, which he willed to stop. He walked slow, stepping forward casually while his thoughts spun. He had to think fast… he had to find out what to do before he reached the beast. He must have been taking too long, because the woman’s scrutinizing stare had returned.

“Are you gonna open the door there?” She pulled it off as a joke, but England didn’t miss the slight concern obviously directed at him. He would have snapped back to defend his dignity if he wasn’t more focused on the hint she had unknowingly given him; There was a door somewhere on the beast. By now he figured the beast was evidently not alive… so it possibly functioned like a carriage. Those had doors and clearer windows, with wood and polish, but if this was anything like those, the handle would be on the side. Surely enough, England saw a handle shaped hook right away, despite the way it blended in to the rest of the entity and the odd shape it too on. It was right where a door would be, and he yanked it open.

His unaccustomed fingers fumbled with the feel of the door even as the heavy mechanism swung, but a surge of pride and relief washed away the previous anxiety that plagued him mere moments ago. He slipped into the recognizable shape of seats in the strange entity with more confidence. England supposed he should thank the woman—even if he was still wary of her. He didn’t suspect her of malicious intent, but England was always prepared. Years of experience taught him better than others ever could.

“Thank you.” He mumbled. It was warmer in the entity—it was comfortable. The low hum he had heard before now translated into a slight rumble underfoot, and the smoke smell had been exchanged with a funny smell he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t a bad smell… just… odd.

“Your welcome,” He couldn’t see her face clearly from the back, but he could hear the warmth in the woman’s tone. “How about you put your seat-belt on, yeah?”

And just like that his anxiety came surging back. He uselessly fingered a few things around him, feeling like an idiot all the while. England knew belts where used to display status, separating common people from serfs- he had worn quite a few during his time with the church- but what purpose did it serve here? He glanced about, looking for something that resembled a belt or a girdle. He didn’t even know if something like that would be in the entity, but if worst came to worst, he could possibly try lying. 

Just as he was about to tell the woman he lost the belt, or that he didn’t travel with his ‘seat-belt’ a strip of cloth caught his eye. Or… it looked like a strip of cloth. England gripped the strip of smooth, flat, black cloth and concluded it was made of something he had never touched before. Then he proceeded to fumble around uselessly with it.

“Ah, sometimes the buckle gets stuck between the seats… sorry about that… it can be a bit hard to get sometimes.” 

He startled at her voice, but expertly repressed his reflex to jump. He paused his fumbling to re-evaluate his actions. His gaze focused on the red and black object to his side, which he only needed to give one hard look before figuring the metal shape on the cloth fit into place there. 

The object clicked with a snap, and a small bit of pride fluttered in his chest. For a moment, everything was perfect. England felt particularly intelligent tricking his way to London, and he was still in one piece, with only low levels of mutual mistrust between himself and the other traveler at best.

It washed away as soon as the entity began to move—and England- wide eyed and still as a block of stone- regretted every choice he had ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter about three times: once in which England walks to London- it was boring, and the drive is 40 minutes hitherto so it was unrealistic (but idk if that time is with or without London traffic... so...?)- a second time, in which America and France get him- I had to give up on London and I couldn’t do that… I’m mean and want England to have a bad time heh- And finally, a third time in which I made up a rando human to drive him there. I think normally a woman wouldn’t ever pick up hitchhikers when alone, but I don’t think England would trust a guy as much, so I just stuck with it. I tagged on her bio that she’s an adoptive mother just cause I think that kind of person would be more willing to lend a hand to a rando teen in baggy cloths standing in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I need the fuzziest grandma type person to get through England’s Fight-everyone-or-die attitude. Idk… I wanted to be in London by now but I guess that didn’t happen. Hopefully I’ll get there next chapter…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I haven’t left my house in four weeks now… I’m living on mac&cheese and power-bars alone. But I have had time to do some things I normally wouldn’t ever try. I have been doing some typical things, like reading fanfics and classic lit, but I also picked up the Guitar and learned a song, needle felted a dragon, started a bad things happen bingo (main reason updates slowed on this… sorry about that) and painted a few random things in ink. I even tried melting some chocolates to make a thing— I burned all the chocolate, though, so the thing was unsuccessful. It was still tasty in the end, so I guess that’s a win.  
> But all in all, I hope this all ends soon, and that everyone stays safe until then.

He did this to himself. He placed himself in this inescapable situation. The one who Crawled inside the entity, creature, carriage that he remained ignorant of was none other than himself. 

London seemed much more important at the time he snuck in. It greedily soaked up every cognitive function he had. 

No… it wasn’t London. It was getting back to the Crown.

The only place in the world that invested in his continued existence. 

That was the goal that betrayed him. The comfort and security his rulers offered for years made him forget his common sense. And now he was stuck.

England sat tense, heart palpitating as the world rushed by, as if he was plummeting off a cliff—a feeling he was regrettably familiar with, back from when he fought tooth and nail to keep his land from his siblings. The smooth way he saw the land fly by outside the beast replicated that same sight without the plunge. 

The entity matched the sensation of falling too close for comfort.

“I must ask-” The woman spoke, unaware of England’s growing dread, “I don’t want to intrude, but were you okay out there on your own? You seemed a bit lost wondering about out there.”

The belt-- The rivet pinned him down. He had to get rid of it. England clawed at the confounding lock only to find that the piece wouldn’t budge. 

He was trapped. 

Trapped in the fast foreign creature, going any direction it pleased. What if it didn’t take him to London? What if this was all one cruel trick? What if he got back and the Queen thought- knew- what he had done…

He shuddered, closing his eyes, pressing into the firm posterior of the entity. 

He had to calm down. Jumbled thinking got him into this mess, so if he wanted to get out, he had to relax and process his exact situation, then make a plan from there.

England refused to lose to fear.

Keeping his eyes closed, he focused on the hum of the entity, letting the memories of falling melt away. He was with a citizen of his own country. They had no reason to harm him.

The entity became much safer in his mind. 

The slow, rhythmic, thumping of his citizen’s heartbeat was much easier to hear with his eyes closed. 

Then his mouth twitched to a frown.

The link was weak, even though it should have been stronger in such close proximity. He should easily connect to his people leagues away, and sometimes, on the rare occasion, when they weren’t even in his own country.

But… since attempting to reach out for his people in the forest, his connection to the land and people had been subpar... 

England shook the thought away and reached out again, attempting to sense what year the woman was born in. 

An ache throbbed through his skull.

Maybe he was just tired? All nations needed full strength to function properly, and if they didn’t, then even the best of them could fail at a simple task, right? 

England called on his nation strength—something that should be disconnected from his personal strength.

The strength that coursed through his veins came sluggish, dripping to him from a thin muffled connection, as if drowned underwater or buried in the sand.

His frown deepened.

Nothing was blocking him… nothing tangling, twisting, or stifling his connection. 

“Do you have any family in London?” A voice both curious and worried broke his thoughts.

He blinked vacantly, still troubled.

The spinning, worrisome view still ran by the bar-less window in a blur-- only now a thin drizzle begun to leave specks on the glass walls separating him from the fields. He grimaced at the sight.

If he wanted to get out of this, he had to play it safe and act as if nothing was wrong. He had to appease the person he was barely linked to, and find his way back to the Queen. 

“Sorry, what was that?” England did his best to sound formal and polite, just like he did when being presented to the ambassadors and nobles—something he was still fairly new at considering he didn’t interact with many people when he lived with the church.

“Just asked if you had family in London” His citizen repeated, gentler this time. 

The faces of his siblings flashed in his sight briefly before coming to the very quick conclusion that he didn’t really want to acknowledge them. Scotland tried to kill him a mere few years ago. But it was merely a returning blow… the blood from their pursuits to eliminate each other always glistened fresh in his memories.

He mutely shook his head. 

“No… none.” His response earned him a sympathetic hum. 

One day that statement might be true.

England focused his gaze back on the world outside. The rain was picking up, sending small droplets from the sky to the windows. The water roll sideways down the windows, and England watched with mild uneasiness before a swift thwip of something across the front glass set him stiff in his chair again.

Another thwip across the front glass wiped it clean of the raindrops.

Harmless… just another… hopefully harmless… strange new thing that he should do his best to ignore for now…

He forced himself to relax. 

He needed to keep a level head to evaluate the situation, even if that might put him in a disadvantage. Evaluating before action may cut out quick reaction time, but it was still better than his continuous running. Since arriving, everything had been action on impulse instead of studying for the best approach. While it possibly saved him from domination at the house, it certainly would not do in his new predicament. 

He needed to correct that act on impulse.

He needed to start studying the new place, learn how to survive, and eliminate it as a threat.

Food and rest would take top priority for now. He had to get his strength up if he hoped to survive and keep himself a step ahead of his hunter. He also needed to pinpoint whom the other nation was, their power, and what they wanted with him.

Back when he woke in the house, surrounded by magic, the overwhelming presence had been nauseating. But he hadn’t sensed any magic since then- aside from his own magic when he foolishly made a deal with a fae, which, no matter how strange a deal, he had to upkeep now- and even though he encountered several magic-like objects, one of which he was sitting in at the moment, nothing else of magical origin had made itself known to him. The place he woke in housed that new, very powerful nation. One he assumed cast the magic. One that gave off the same exact potent signature Rome had. 

And the nation knew his name.

A shudder crawled his spine.

His face dropped into his palms. A magical nation knew his name. His tousled hairs barely brushed the tips of his hands as he prayed to God that the other nation didn’t know enough magic to do anything with that. The fairies held an uneasy neutrality with him, but a magical nation? The nations could do anything without fear of repercussion if it gaged him weak enough. Luckily nation titles where not quite as potent as personal names, and nothing bad had happened yet.

His hands lowered from his face at that small tinge of comfort. 

But if the nation was planning something, there was nothing England could do. There was no point… he could only bide his time and hope.

He sighed, leaning with his back to the window. It took willpower to cast his worries to the side and rest, but if he hoped to regain his strength he would need sleep. 

Outside the rain continued to drizzle, tapping the glass as his eyes slid shut. It was not a plush bed or soft cushion, and it was in no way comfortable, but England couldn’t bring himself to care. The strange vibration of the entity lulled softer and softer, then his head fell heavily against the cold window.

After some time, the thoughts of the other nation vanished into a dreamless, restless sleep.

==========

Nausea attacked him when his eyes opened again. He was not home. That he knew and remembered firmly. He felt disorientated and disconnected. And he was getting tired of coming to dizzy every time he woke in this new place.

England stayed motionless as he blinked the wave of _out of place very confused horribly sick slow and sluggish_ from his head. 

Everything came back to him in clearer detail the longer he fixated on it—the house, the deal, the entities—especially the entities. He could feel the motion underfoot still as the entity moved. It left a sour taste in his mouth and a nervous flutter in his chest.

England groaned and moved his sore neck, relaxing once he felt the heartbeat of his citizen over the rumble of the entity. He hadn’t gotten much sleep; His head still felt heavy, and a quick reach into the subconscious of his people proved that his connection was still muted. 

England’s frustration simmered as he sighed, leaning back to stare out the window again, only to pause. His eyes widened. 

Buildings. Massive buildings. They flanked the entity infested roads on all sides, towering into the sky, glinting sunlight from the now broken clouds.

England had never seen anything so tall in his life.

He couldn’t look away. Cool glass pressed against his palms and face as he leaned closer for a better look, attempting to see the tops from his too-close vantage point in the entity. His breath fogged the window and blocked his sight.

England turned away, feeling a bit silly now.

He had to douse the unexplainable urge to stand on top of one of the shining towers and touch the sky. This place… wherever land it was… took everything to lofty extremes. 

His hopes sunk. He wondered if he was actually headed to London at all.

The entity turned, slowly, loosing momentum. It came to a stop contiguously between two dead, motionless entities.

“Well, here we are then. Do you have any quids for the underground?” The woman said.

“We… arrived?” He sounded numb. He felt numb. He only loosely registered that he knew what a quid was.

The woman nodded in affirmation.

“ah… no… I don’t have anything…” He had a rock in his pocket.

The numbness didn’t go away as he took the unfamiliar currency with a familiar name. He felt light headed as he stepped out into the city that was not his, among people that were not his, in clothes that were not his. 

But he could feel the thin thread of connection to everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE ARE FINALLY IN LONDON! England is gonna flip at how many foreigners/vacationers are in his capital. Anyhow….  
> Quick adventures of America and France! The two of them found the location in the woods without America ever questioning why France has a GPS location on England’s phone- much to France’s relief- then America got childishly excited at finding money on the ground. At least until they found the car keys and phone near with it and concluded it belonged to England. France then realized that he is going to need to use a very old skill of his, honed and perfected throughout the centuries, one such skill that hasn’t been used since the end of ww2:  
> Tracking down an England whom does not wish to be found.  
> France then concluded that England is probably headed to his capital, and the two nations headed off. (America can’t drive manual so France had to drive. Oh… and I imagine they are using England’s car cause they got his keys now haha)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *procrastinates half a year*  
> YO WHATSUP PEOPLES!  
> Alas I have returned to slap a new chapter over the plot holes and grammar errors!!   
> (I meant to fix them but then I... didn't. Ah well it's probably fine.)
> 
> And uhhh... if you want a reason I vanished it was pretty much because I didn't feel like writing this summer and started October with whumptober prompts. =P

The sun barely split the shadows of the small corner England resided in, watching and waiting for the endless stream of people to slow. His legs were stiff from sitting in place, but England needed data, and if he moved out now he would be clueless and lost in an unknown city. He tried to read the people passing by him, but he found the same dizzying, nauseating headache from before overtook him in exchange for minuscule trickles of information. Some didn’t read. Others permeated danger and were completely estranged from his senses. Possibly they were merchants or oversea travelers, and didn't belong to him. That didn't explain why there were so many, though.

It was exhausting, getting him nowhere, and he needed a source of water soon. From experience, he could last three or four months as a nation without food-- that data was invalid in his current ‘disconnected’ state. Water, he could go a little less than a week before his body began to fail. It would never die, but being trapped in such a state would be debilitating, and in enemy territory he was in no position to go through that. Water was a necessity he couldn’t afford to skip, but he still wasn’t about to run out into the city without more data. This was a familiar city… it had to be. He just couldn't remember why. Something must have happened, something he missed, and it had to have been something huge.

Everything was wrong, but at the same time it was all exactly in the right place, and it sent his mind into a careening mess.

It frustrated him, the limited ‘view’ on his nation. Like the strings that attached him to the world had snapped. He was missing a sense that all nations had. It felt like being blind in a way.

Dull fear throbbed in his chest and he reinvigorated his attempt to read a person passing by. Nausea gurgled up in retaliation and England sucked in a breath of discomfort. 

What was missing? This place- he didn’t want to say it was London- but he couldn't deny that this place was attached to him. He was stronger, still distant, but much stronger than he had been when he first arrived. This place was part of him. It was numbing. It made reality bite down and England’s gaze on the pedestrians slip away. He was so lost, so over his head, confused, detached, isolated… so very isolated. His island was separate, distant from the other nations, but he always had his people. His people and sometimes, though rarely, his brothers-- even if that relation with his brothers was only fighting, and an annoying presence nagging the edges of his land, it was a reminder that he wasn't truly alone.

But no one was with him now. No one had been for a long time.

England pulled himself to his feet and shuffled further back into his corner. It had always been England versus the world, England against everyone in the game of survival, but this was a true single player game in which he could find no backup. It wasn't 'England' versus the world… it was just him. Without his people, he was... what was he?

What was he without England?

He was always England. There was nothing without England, it wasn't possible. He gripped his short, tangled hair in irritation. This 'block,' this inability to find his people, it held a frustrating grasp on him that he could shake. 

He resented that isolation so he let a new wave of resolve wash through him and he shoved the old resolve out. He didn’t need anyone… he could fix this himself. He didn't need his people to be England.

And if was going to do this alone, he was going to need to find a batter place to hide... with information or not. His people were obviously not willing to give him assistance so he'd make the tactical risks for himself.

England inched out of the shade, taking care to watch the busy people traversing the streets like a hawk. The city reminded him too much of Rome; people from many different lands walked the clean streets while the architecture towered overhead. This was still much more impressive than Rome though, and that thought left a bad taste in his mouth.

He merged into the crowd easily, stepping fully into the sidewalk thick with people. He kept his head down, and followed the back of a grey cloak of sorts belonging to a pair of polished black heels, while fearing that he would stand out. He, out of the entire throng of people, had no clue where he was going or what he was doing. An observant person would easily be able to single him out by his wandering eyes and aimless direction. But if there was one thing England was good at, it was acting. Once he had a behavior to replicate, he was confident he'd be able to copy it near flawless. He didn't exactly have a behavior to copy at the moment, but he could do a fairly impressive improvisation. For now he just had to pick a direction and go. 

He ended up following the edges of the buildings, the ones along the sides of the oddly smooth streets, sticking to the edge closest to the walls. It was confining-- probably unsafe considering he had no where to run if anyone found him to be an impostor, but he couldn't imagine anyone recognising him, so he continued onward in that pressed place between people and brick.

And it was like this that he circled the landscape at least twice.

England growled in a mixture of anger and distress. He was annoyed, tired, thirsty, lost, and clearly not thinking well. Of course he would pass the same nook he'd been hiding in before if he stuck to one wall. 

He promptly shuffled back into his nook on the second circle, because right as he was about to branch away from that wall, the fear of the unknown yanked him right back to the wall's cold surface.

He wanted to scream. He didn't know why he was letting this... this loop, this dumb development and spinning logic fester in his head. Obviously he needed to draft up a new course of action, or he'd be facing any fair amount of horrible consequences from his poorly developed plans. This time it was only annoyance and wasted time, next time it might lead to a far worse fate. He needed to be sharper, more intelligent than his situation. Cheating the system was the fastest way to the top, and intellect was the tool that barred the consequences from ever catching up.

So how could he cheat the system this time?

He sat down again, running a quick hand through his tangled hair even though the strands were too short to swipe from his face and they simply fell exactly where they had laid skewed and sticking in every which way before. He kept a sharp eye observing the people passing, but this time he didn't attempt reading anyone. Restlessness made him fidgety, and nothing of his checklist had been accomplished. He was still a weak, isolated, hungry, thirsty, and shelterless target for anyone to take advantage of.

England growled again and tucked his chin down. The stone beneath his feet was littered with grime-- but still clean by any standards he'd known. As a matter of fact, every inch of the city he'd found himself in was astounding. If it wasn't for the growing pressure pressing deep into his chest, he might have actually enjoyed simply gaping at the place in awe and wonder. But instead he was here, shuffled away in a tiny corner, all alone with a rising urgency ticking his insides and pulling the air from his lungs. He was running out of time. There was no way he could bring himself to care about the city or how massive it was when there were urgent matters at hand. 

Just as he was about to gather his pent-up frustrations and drag himself out into the streets again, a distinct, abhorrent face froze every bone in his body.

Danger registered before he even understood what he'd seen.

_...France..._

England threw himself against the wall hard on his side, crouching back down below eye line. For a brief second he stilled. Then he inched forward, searching for that familiar demented mug while his heart thumped close in his ears.

There, in the crowd, mere lengths from him his enemy stood, conversing with... with that _other_ nation. The one from the place he'd first woken in. The massive one that had promised him no harm.

England wanted to laugh at himself. To think he'd even hesitated to run when the enemy had said that was ridiculous. He should have known better that the nation was working with the frenchman. It was concerning, though, that France had found so powerful an ally.

And come to think of it, it was especially concerning that France was different than when he'd last met the frog. France looked stronger, and older, too. 

He furrowed his brows and tried to push the dread that'd been chewing his insides since arrival down. 

Something was wrong... something was incredibly messed up and nothing was adding together the way it should be.

England pressed further into the wall as his enemies drew closer, as if the wall could offer protection. He pushed through his pocket with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around the rock he'd carried with him. It was a crude weapon, but he wasn't so pompous to elevate himself above it as so many humans skilled with a weapon were.

"...Just trust me on this, Amerique." 

England strained to sort the city sounds from their conversation.

"I still think the PM's would've been a better place." The Nation responded while scanning his surroundings. England filed the title 'Amerique' away as the disgusting French variation of the nation's name. 

"Yes, these days maybe. But naturally, he's going to gravitate somewhere busy. It may surprise you, but the best place for a nation back then wasn't typically with our bosses." France shook his head. The man passed right by his hiding place without glancing toward him.

Somewhere busy, huh? England narrowed his eyes and inched further back where it would be harder to see him. And what was this about 'back then'?

He waited and watched as they walked further, until they vanished into the crowd.

Then he darted out of his hiding place and ran in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> France and America got there really fast lmao
> 
> Guess it's time to vanish once more cause the next chapter is estimated to arrive anytime between next month and another six months cause planning is non existent with my two second attention span.

**Author's Note:**

> Woah... i just realized that I could put 5000 letters in this box. That's a lot of letters.  
> Anyhow, if anyone happens to comment, I'll prob respond. Unless I really have no clue what to say, the chances are 80% I will say hi or something. It's another form of procrastination I guess... answering/reading comments rather than doing the real work I'm supposed to be doing. But please do comment, you're helping a poor bored soul ward off the boredom.


End file.
